


so you wanna be a hero, kid

by pavonine



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 10:11:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9543176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pavonine/pseuds/pavonine
Summary: The Waitress' new boyfriend is a real hero-type. With Frank's help, Charlie decides to prove that he can be a hero too.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my beta, [Jenna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/volunteerfd/pseuds/volunteerfd), who was kind enough to give this a look on quite literally a text's worth of short notice.
> 
> Title is a reference to "[One Last Hope](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OtTmR_v6pz4)" from _Hercules_. But I hope you already knew that.

Dee holds up the newspaper with an unimpressed scowl. “‘Killer Savings at PNC’?” she says. “Seriously?”

Mac chuckles. “‘Killer Savings,’” he says. “I get it. Funny.”

“More like corny as shit,” Dee says. “Who’s gonna want to read a newspaper article that starts out with ‘Killer Savings’?”

“Who _wouldn’t_ want to?”

“Dee, you don’t get it,” Dennis says, pointing at the newspaper with his beer. “Titles don’t have to literally describe the article. They just have to stand out. You know, grab your attention.”

“And ‘Killer Savings’ definitely grabs your attention,” Mac adds. “It certainly grabbed mine. It’s so visceral.”

“Exactly, Mac. The headline gets your attention, sometimes with a joke, and then you linger long enough to actually read the article. In this case, it’s a tangential, slightly opportunistic pun about a guy saving a bunch of hostages from a hostile bank robbery. And it _works_. The guy’s a hero, which I know because I _actually read the article_.”

“And dating the Waitress,” Mac adds. “And he’s a volunteer firefighter, and I know all this because I actually read the article too. See, Dee, you can’t just cram all that information into the headline, it’d make no sense.”

“I’m not arguing that, I’m just saying, it’s not even a good pun,” Dee says. “Come on, ‘Killer Savings’? No one’s gonna read that and expect a stuffy article about the Waitress’ volunteer firefighter boyfriend saving hostages from a bank robbery. They’re gonna expect some shit about saving money at the bank. You’re just setting the audience up for failure and serious emotional whiplash, and in the comedy biz, that’s a no go.”

“There’s a picture right underneath it!” Dennis says. “It’s called context, Dee, ever heard of it before?”

“Context, what context, there’s barely any goddamn context. Look!” Dee jabs at the newspaper with one finger. “Look, all you can see in this is the firefighter guy, and he’s got the Waitress all on his arm and shit, and like a crowd of onlookers—that’s barely any context. Nothing about how the guy’s practically a hero, or how he tried to talk the robbers out of their plans, or him taking them all down without any weapons or backup. You’ve led the audience in with a lame joke and now you’re just confusing them.”

“It’s not like you can give the whole story away in the picture, either,” Mac says, rolling his eyes as Dennis nods in agreement. “You have to draw people’s eyes in, so they actually read the article.”

“All I’m saying is, it’s a terrible pun, it’s corny as shit, and I for one won’t stand for it,” Dee says.

Mac shakes his head. “You just don’t understand comedy.”

“ _You_ don’t understand _good_ comedy!” Dee says, and before they can eviscerate each other’s comedic qualifications, Charlie barrels into the bar like a bullet from a gun.

Mac, Dee, and Dennis all go very quiet. And, very carefully, Dee turns the newspaper over.

Charlie disappears into the keg room and comes out a minute later, out-of-breath and wild-eyed. “Mac, where’d we stash the Fight Milk?”

Mac makes a face. “You mean the batch we made last month?”

“Yeah.”

“I dumped it like a week ago.”

Charlie throws his hands up in frustration. “What? _Why_?”

“Because we made it last month,” Mac says slowly.

Charlie touches his hands to his temples. His mouth is pressed into a thin, tight line. “That’s fine. That's fine,” he says, after a long moment. “I’m just gonna need to borrow all of our grain alcohol for a bit.”

Dennis raises a brow. “ _All_ of it?”

“Yeah.”

Dee says, “Why?” and Charlie’s eye actually twitches.

“Look, I’ll give it right back when I’m done with it,” Charlie tells them, arms now full of four bottles of grain alcohol.

He backs out of the bar without exactly explaining _why_ , or what he needs four full bottles of grain alcohol for, or why he burst in looking for rancid Fight Milk in the first place.

“I think he’s taking it well,” Dennis says, and neither Mac nor Dee are sure if he’s joking.

—

Five glasses of fresh Fight Milk later and Charlie’s all loose, all limber, rolling his shoulders as he bounces on the soles of his sneakers.

“You’re gonna get this guy,” Frank tells him.

“I am.”

“You’re gonna sucker-punch the shit out of him.”

“Definitely.”

“You’re gonna knock him so hard, his ancestors start spinning around in their graves,” Frank says, with a viciously gleeful glint in his eye.

“Right, right—wait, ancestors. They the ones before you or after you?”

“Doesn’t matter. You ready, Charlie?”

“I’m ready, Frank!” Charlie yells, and Frank laughs, and he reels Rickety Cricket in from the hallway.

Charlie’s spirit and hands drop at the same time. “Aw, Frank, come on,” he says, gesturing at the bound, gagged, and blindfolded Cricket. “This isn’t the Waitress’ new boyfriend!”

“Well no shit.”

“I’m not—Jesus Christ, Frank, I can’t beat up Cricket,” Charlie says. “His hands are taped up, man, it’s not even a fair fight.”

“It’s fine,” Cricket says, muffled behind the cloth gag. “I’m getting paid for this.”

Charlie raises both eyebrows. “You’re paying him?”

“Twenty bucks,” Frank says with a shrug.  

“Yeah, but—come on, man, Cricket?” And Charlie gestures again, for added emphasis.

Frank sets his jaw, eyes Charlie with as stubborn a look as he can muster. “Look,” he says, “you wanna commit to the hero gig or not?”

“Of course I do!” Charlie says.

“Well, part of _being_ a hero is learning how to wail on the bad guys,” Frank says.

“Cricket’s not a bad guy.”

“Oh, I’m anything you want me to be,” Cricket breezes. “You know, for a price I mean.”

Frank scowls. “Cricket’s a dummy,” he says. “He’s practice. You can’t just guzzle down Fight Milk and bounce outta bed the next morning a bonafide hero.”

“I do object to being called a dummy,” Cricket says. “I have feelings.”

“You gotta work at it. Learn how to throw a punch, instead of just taking ‘em all the time,” Frank says, and Charlie stares him down, and Frank isn’t budging on this one, so he has to mean business. “How do you think the Waitress’ hero boyfriend disarmed all those bank robbers, huh? His good looks and charm?”

“The PNC Bank robbers?” Cricket pipes up again. “You’re talking about those guys, right? The ones who got taken down by that like, ex-cop or whatever.”

“Volunteer firefighter,” Charlie says. He’s gone eerily quiet.

“Right, right. Boy—now _that,_ that is real heroism, if you ask me,” Cricket says. “Guy’s brave enough to go after all those armed men, with no weapons, no backup, and he comes out of it alive?” Chuckling, he shakes his head. “That Waitress is one lucky gal.”

Frank steps off to the side as Charlie’s hand draws back, curled tightly into a fist.

—

It’s not all Fight Milk and wailing on Cricket. Frank makes him do other things—chasing tourists up and down the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Ziplining on the clotheslines between their apartment building and the adjacent one. Cat wrestling. _Tai chi_.

Charlie’s feeling it after a solid week of intense hero training, and Frank only lets him have Saturday afternoon off so he can do the books. And at two o’clock on a Saturday afternoon, the bar is blessedly empty. Charlie rests his forehead on the cool, slightly-sticky countertop and enjoys the quiet, for once.

 The doorbell tinkles, and Charlie picks up on two voices coming from just outside. “Let’s just—let’s go somewhere else,” says the familiar voice, “please,” and then a new voice laughs, a low rumble like the distant call of thunder.  

“Oh, come on,” the voice says, as the door swings open, and the Waitress marches inside with a frown. A tall man follows her, nudging her further inside. “What are you hiding avoiding this place all the time, anyhow?”

“Nothing, it’s just—” the Waitress says, and then she spots Charlie, staring at her open-mouthed and wide-eyed, and her lips tighten into a thin line and she crosses her arms across her chest and she pointedly looks off to the side.

The tall man gazes around the bar, eyes the flickering lighting fixtures, the grimy floor, the yellowing Polaroids tacked to the walls. He grimaces. “ _Ah_.”

Mac and Dennis glance up from their game of pool, then briefly at each other. Mac takes point, and Dennis follows behind as they encroach on the Waitress and her new boyfriend, pool cues at the ready.

“There a problem?” Mac says, lifting his chin, chest puffed like a strutting bird. Then he stops short. “Hey wait. I know you.”

The Waitress rolls her eyes. “Hello, Mac,” she says.

“No, not you. _You_ ,” Mac says, pointing the pool cue at the Waitress’ new boyfriend. “You’re that guy from the bank.”

“The one who took out all the armed robbers?” Dee says, leaning over the bar as the conversation catches her interest.

The Waitress’ boyfriend allows a quick smile to flash over his features. “I don’t like to brag,” he says.

“Dude!” Mac says, as Dennis’ face breaks into a grin and Dee abandons Charlie at the bar to join the tiny crowd. “Are you kidding me, that was the most badass thing I’ve ever read—”

“And that whole speech you gave to the press, the one about honor coming before reason,” and Dennis shakes his head in disbelief, “that was just incredibly profound, I could never come up with something like that—not on the spot, at least—“

“The picture doesn’t do you justice at all,” Dee says as Mac and Dennis talk around her, “you or the story,” and the Waitress’ boyfriend keeps darting between the three of them, unsure of where to start.

Charlie doesn’t join them. No need to crowd the big hero.

“How did you do that—that kick-flip thing?” Mac asks curiously. “The one the cops said took out the third guy’s front teeth?”

“Oh, that? Krav Maga,” the Waitress’ boyfriend says, all casual about it, and Mac inhales so sharply that people in outer space can hear it. “I studied it for years, so I’ve got my own style, really. It’s a bit flashier than the usual, I’ll admit. You practice?”

“Here and there,” Mac says. “More of a multidisciplinarian, really.”

“You look it,” the Waitress’ boyfriend says, and Mac almost dies of happiness on the spot.

“Did you really try talking them out of doing it?” Dennis says. “The bank robbers. The article said you did.”

“Well, I had to,” the Waitress’ boyfriend replies. He drops an arm casually around the Waitress’ shoulders, tugging her close to his side. “I’ve always liked to think of myself as a lover, not a fighter. I prefer to solve problems peacefully, if I can. Calmly. _Rationally_.”

Dennis nods so fast his head blurs.

“It’s unfortunate that some people can’t really be reasoned with,” the Waitress’ new boyfriend continues. “But it was for their own good. Hopefully in the future, assailants will be more persuaded by an impassioned speech than an impassioned blow to the head.”

“You’re right,” Dennis says, awe dawning on his features. “You’re so right.”

“That must’ve been terrifying,” Dee says, inching closer. “In the picture they took of you after the robbery, you didn’t look scared at all.”

The Waitress’ boyfriend looks at Dee, lips quirking. “It was pretty terrifying, honestly,” he says. “But someone had to save those poor innocent hostages from all those would-be killers. I just wish the papers didn’t headline it with a cheap joke. It really undercut the seriousness of the moment, I thought.”

Dee and Dennis and Mac are all nodding like a bargain-bin set of broken bobbleheads, and Charlie stares at the scars and scrapes of the countertop and doesn’t say a word.

“Hey, can we get you a beer?” Mac then says. “On the house.”

“We really have to get going—” the Waitress starts to say, but her boyfriend lights up at the offer.

“A beer would be fantastic,” he says, and the Waitress frowns, and the crowd relocates to the bar proper. The Waitress’ boyfriend picks a stool at the end, one seat away from Charlie.

He jerks his head by way of greeting. “How’s it going,” he says.

Charlie’s upper lip curls into a snarl.

The Waitress hesitates, then finally takes the open seat in between her boyfriend and Charlie. Their eyes meet for a fleeting second, and then the Waitress turns away, and Charlie’s face doesn’t fall so much as it crashes into the planet.

He gets up without a word and heads into the basement. The urge to punch something out of existence is grossly overwhelming.

—

“Guys,” Dee says, “I’m worried about Charlie.”

To her surprise, Dennis stops sweeping the floor and Mac drops his cleaning rag on a table. “You too?” Dennis says.

“Wait, seriously?” Dee says.

Solemn-faced, Mac nods, and Dennis says, “Yeah. For a while, now.”

Dee narrows her eyes in suspicion. “You guys are actually worried about him,” she says. “You’re not trying to profit off him, or test weird drugs on him, or basically trying to milk this hero kick he’s on?”

“Dee,” Mac says, affronted, “we’re not monsters. And how _dare_ you.”

“Yeah, this,” Dennis says, “this is serious.” He gently taps the broom bristles to the floor, then quiets, and they all listen to the painful, dull crunch of Charlie beating up a punching bag for the fifth day in a row. 

“He’s going to get himself hurt,” Mac adds. “We don’t even know what kind of hero shit he plans on getting up to.”

“I do.” Mac, Dennis, and Dee all glance at the back office in unison. Frank stands in front of the door, looking grim, but determined. “And it involves all three of you.”

They exchange confused looks, and then Dee ventures, “How are we gonna get involved in Charlie’s hero shit?”

Frank tosses what looks like three large black socks at Mac, Dennis, and Dee in turn. Dee stretches hers out—it’s a crudely-constructed ski mask.

“Simple,” Frank is saying, as the three of them attempt to extract meaning from a makeshift mask. “You three are gonna be our bank robbers.”

Mac drops the mask like it’s a live, angry rattlesnake. “We’re robbing a bank?!” he exclaims.

“No, dimwit,” Frank says. “You’re gonna rob _the Waitress_.”

“Ohhh,” they say in unison, before the realization dawns on them. Dee’s nose wrinkles fiercely. “Wait, I’m not so sure—”

“You’re not actually gonna rob the Waitress, calm down,” Frank says with a dismissive wave. “When she’s working, you’re gonna walk into her store, take these water guns—“ he holds up a water gun, painted a convincing matte black—“and _pretend_ to hold her hostage. Then Charlie’s gonna come flying in all heroic-like, wail on the three of yous a bit, save the Waitress, and look like a big hero.”

Mac, Dennis, and Dee all give this a moment’s consideration. “So we’re not actually holding anyone up,” Mac says. “No one’s pointing any real guns at anyone.”

Frank pulls out his own gun in record time. “Not if it all goes to plan,” he says, twirling the gun around a finger.

“Jesus, Frank—all right,” Dennis says, chirping a hand at him in annoyance. “Put the gun away.” He then pauses, eyes the mask carefully. “And we’re doing this for Charlie.”

“The hell else would it be for?”

“And he stops being all—” Mac snaps his fingers a couple times. “You know, all—”

“Obsessed with doing hero shit?” Dee says. “Probably going to get himself killed over something really stupid?”

“I was getting to that.”

“This is what it’s all been leading up to,” Frank says.

It’s not the most direct of answers, but it earns a mildly beleaguered sigh from Dennis. “Fine,” he says, “we’ll do it. For Charlie.”

Frank’s nod is curt. “Good.”

“Now does Charlie have to beat on us or can we work a little stage fight magic and just make it _look_ like we’re getting beat on?”

“Aw, come on, Dennis, where’s the fun in that?” Everyone’s heads turn as Charlie emerges from the basement, covered in sweat and grime, knuckles bruised and bloody even under their wrappings. “I won’t hit you that hard if you’re really worried about it.”

“You _know_ about this?” Mac asks, boggling at Charlie as he strides over to a beaming Frank.

“Isn’t it great?” Charlie claps an arm around Frank’s shoulders. “No one gets really hurt, no one’s in any serious danger, and I get to look like a hero in front of the Waitress.”

“After you scare her half to death,” Dee says.

“And then I _save_ her right afterwards,” Charlie says. “You just don’t understand what being a hero’s about.”

“She’ll know in two days, Charlie,” Frank says with pride, “she’ll see it firsthand,” and Dee looks from the ski mask in her hand to Mac and Dennis’ equally bewildered expressions.

“I guess I will,” she says, with a lurching feeling in her gut.

—

Charlie’s trying to remember everything Frank taught him about ziplining as he clutches his walkie-talkie in one hand and a pair of field binoculars in the other. He’s camped out in the attic of a condemned building, right across where the Waitress works, and he may have learned a lot in the week and a half Frank’s been teaching him but _patience_ was never listed on the syllabus.

“Tom Cruise-in- _Top Gun_ to Tom Cruise-in- _Vanilla Sky_ , do you copy? Over,” crackles Mac’s voice in the air, and Charlie jumps at the sound and breathes in about a quart of attic dust.

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” he hisses, and glares at the walkie-talkie before depressing the button. “This is Tom Cruise-in- _Vanilla Sky_ ,” Charlie says, “read you loud and clear, _Top Gun_. Over.”

“Status report on subject: Katie Holmes,” Mac says. “Over.”

Charlie holds up the binoculars and looks out the lone attic window, where he’s got a clear view of the Waitress’ coffee shop. “She’s talking to a customer?” he says, squinting through the lenses. “Uh, I think she is. Oh, now she’s getting him something. A coffee? A latte!” A pause. “Oh, over.”

“Mac, give me the goddamn walkie-talkie—Tom Cruise-in- _Risky Business_ ,” Dennis says irritably. “ _Vanilla Sky_ , when the hell are we moving in? Over.”

“Not until Frank gives the signal,” Charlie says. “Then I give you guys the signal, _then_ you move in and take the place hostage, over.”

“And when is Frank giving the signal?” Dee says from the background.

“Codenames, Dee, goddammit. We worked on these.”

“ _Fine_. Tom Cruise-in- _Jerry Maguire_ ,” Dee snaps. “When is Frank giving you the goddamn signal? Goddamn over, Jesus Christ.”

“Soon, very soon. Just everybody hang tight. No itchy trigger fingers, okay? Over.” Charlie quickly flips the channel to Frank’s. “This is Tom Cruise-in- _Vanilla Sky_ to Tom Cruise-in- _Tropic Thunder_ , you got anything for me? Over.”

“I’m waiting for that coworker of hers to go on her smoke break,” Frank mutters.

“Well, let me know as soon as you’ve got anything. Got _A Few Good Men_ here ready to handle the truth, if you catch my drift. And say ‘over’ when you’re done, Frank, God! Over.”

He all but slams the walkie-talkie down and resumes watching the coffee shop through the binoculars. The Waitress is bored, leaning over the countertop with her head in her hand. Politely nodding at the seemingly long, uninteresting story her coworker was telling her. Sighing to herself, drumming her nails along the side of the cash register.

Until she glances up like a deer hearing a gunshot, and her eyes dart to the door. And her face barely has time to register a moment of shocked surprise before the new boyfriend steps up to the counter, and from behind his back pulls out a large bouquet of bright pink roses, a gallant flourish as he sweeps them right up to her nose.

The walkie-talkie crackles and Charlie ignores it.

The Waitress’s face still radiates stunned disbelief, but the coworker’s all over it, fawning over the bouquet and fanning her hand to her chest. The boyfriend says something to her, and the coworker gets all fake-bashful, and the boyfriend presses a dramatic kiss to her hand before offering the Waitress a smaller peck on the cheek.

He strides out, whistling. Charlie’s grip on the binoculars is cold and clammy. He returns to the Waitress—the coworker’s taken the bouquet and displayed them in a glass vase right there on the counter, and the Waitress is reading the attached card.

There’s a look on her face that Charlie’s never, ever seen before.

He sets the binoculars down as the walkie-talkie buzzes again, and he stares at it for a moment. Presses the button, numbness trailing down his arm. Dennis barks over the channel, “ _Vanilla Sky_ , do you read me? _Tropic Thunder_ has reports of a Lord Xenu on the premises, can you confirm? Over!”

“Guys,” Charlie says, “it’s over.”

Mac and Dee both make harsh noises of confusion in the background, and Dennis just says, “Repeat that?”

He doesn’t.

He sets the walkie-talkie down by the field binoculars and he stands up and he dusts attic dust off his pants, and he knows somewhere in the back of his mind that heroes don’t walk away from terrifying situations, but he was never cut out to be a hero, anyway.

—

The Gang figures out the story one way or another, and they give Charlie his space, and after four days of that Charlie gets this terrifying itch to go out and not be treated so _cautiously_ all the damn time. He’s not going to snap at anyone, or bite anyone’s face off for looking at him wrong. He knows the Waitress is in love with her new boyfriend. He’s accepted that. He’s made his peace with it.

And he heads to a nearby park before anyone can tell him otherwise.

The park is abandoned, save for a few fat pigeons tottering about. Charlie kicks a rock out of his path and it accidentally zooms into one of them; beady black eyes sharpen and glare up at him in visible annoyance.

“Sorry,” Charlie mutters.

 _Coo_ , the pigeon says, suspicious.

“You too, huh,” Charlie says, and the pigeon ruffles its feathers in response. “Can’t catch a break from anyone these days.”

“Charlie?” says a voice, and Charlie whips around, and the Waitress is peering at him not unlike a scientist would a newly-crashed meteorite. “Are you talking to a pigeon?”

Charlie bristles. “I was addressing it, yes,” he says, “but it wasn't much of a conversation.” The pigeon coos in insult behind him. “What are you doing here?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“You got to ask me a question.” Charlie crosses his arms, eyebrow lifting. The Waitress rolls her eyes.

“Okay,” she says, “I’m waiting.” And then, like he couldn’t have guessed, “For my boyfriend?” and she sits down on a park bench with a look on her face like she’s daring Charlie to challenge her.

“Oh,” Charlie says.

“Yeah,” the Waitress says. “He’ll be here in like five minutes, so.”

“Oh,” Charlie says again, sticking his hands in his front pockets. “That’s cool.”

“It is.” The Waitress’ smile doesn’t meet her eyes. “So if you wanna, I don’t know…”

“Oh. Oh! You want me to clear out.” Charlie jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Of a public space.”

She falters. “Well.”

“No no, that’s cool. I get it. You’ve got your little park date,” Charlie says. “Yeah, I can just leave you. All alone, in this weird abandoned creepy park. Alone.”

The Waitress stares at him for a long, long time, lips pressed together. “Then stay,” she says. “I guess that’s… fine.”

“It _is_ a public park,” Charlie reminds her as he all but bounds over to the bench and sits down. The Waitress scoots to the other end. “Five minutes, he said?”

The Waitress pulls out her phone. “Yep.”

“Ah.”

Three of those minutes are spent in a stilted silence.

“So,” Charlie says, eventually. “You come here often?”

“Really just here waiting,” the Waitress says in a thin voice. She checks her phone again, and Charlie catches a flash of worry dart across her face.

“He’s not usually this late, is he?” Charlie says, and if the Waitress picks up on the sarcastic undertone, she doesn’t comment.

“Not usually.”

“Oh. That’s good.”

“It is,” the Waitress says. She sends a text and flips her phone facedown, glancing firmly away from it. Out of the corner of his eye, Charlie watches until her phone buzzes and she eagerly flips it over.

“What’s it say?” he asks, and the Waitress lets out this long, world-weary sigh.

“Fifteen minutes,” she says, toneless, her cute purple phone case gripped tight in her hand.

Charlie doesn’t quite know what to say. “That sucks,” he tries, unremarkable and bland. “Did you have anything planned, or…”

The Waitress grimaces, and she slaps her phone against her thigh a few times. “He just always does this,” she says, “I mean, it’s not like it’s that big a deal or anything. I was just raised to be respectful of someone else’s time, so when you _tell_ someone you’ll meet them in the park at four o’clock, I find it really, really rude to make them wait when they’ve already been waiting hours.”

“Hours, huh.”

“First it was ‘I’ll come pick you up at work,’ then it was ‘go ahead and meet me at the café.’ Now it’s ‘wait for me in the park,’” she says. “I mean, I have been waiting all morning.”

She shakes her head with a bitter laugh. Charlie frowns. “That… also sucks.”

“Yeah.” The Waitress grimaces. “Some birthday this turned out to be.”

There’s a deafening silence in the space after her words, and Charlie’s brows draw down in honest sympathy. “Shit,” Charlie says. “I’m sorry.”

“Great, thanks.”

“I mean it,” Charlie says, and the Waitress turns her head, eyes narrowed. “All your birthdays should be great.”

“Okay.”

“And I’m sorry that this one sucks and your boyfriend’s making you wait by being late all the time,” Charlie adds. “Shit, I don’t know, maybe he’s stuck in traffic.”

“He doesn’t have a car.”

“Bike traffic?”

“Charlie. Are you serious.”

“I don’t know!” Charlie says. “Maybe he’s, like, planning an elaborate surprise for you or something.”

The Waitress’ frown cuts deep across her face. “I hope not.”

“You don’t?”

Charlie’s got his head cocked in question, and the Waitress lets out this slow sigh after a long moment. “He’s… I mean, it sounds like him,” she says. “You know, always doing big romantic gestures?”

“Oh.”

“They make me feel so—I don’t even know how to respond half the time,” the Waitress says. “It’s nice of him to do it, and I appreciate all the work he puts into planning, but what do you even _do_ after your boyfriend rents out the entire Philadelphia Zoo for your one-month anniversary? Just saying ‘thank you’—it  seems so… so…”

Charlie leans in.

“And it’s not even the big things, it’s little things too. He came in the other day, when I was working? He brought me flowers. Like, in the middle of my shift, just a big, beautiful bouquet of pink roses. Just because, he said. And it felt like a production—I didn’t even know how to react.” She frowns. “I don’t even like the color pink all that much.”

She trails off, gazing downward. Her shoulders are held stiff at her sides, and her lower lip has a funny quiver to it, like it’s holding something back. And maybe it’s all that hero training Frank put him through kicking in, because he doesn’t say or do anything, and they’re silent for a good minute or two, and then the Waitress’ shoulders drop and it’s like a wave of exhausted relief crashing out of her.

“I think he likes the attention,” she says softly. “He likes it when people notice, I guess. He likes being someone’s hero. But I don’t need a hero, or even want one. I’d be happy if he just wanted to do picnic dates at the park, or dinner and a movie; I don’t need him to dedicate six Elton John songs to me in a row on karaoke night. And I’ve tried talking to him about it, and every time I do he gets all sad and I don’t even think he’s doing it on _purpose_ , but I’m getting _nowhere_ and it’s actually kind of frustrating. I keep thinking—I keep hoping he’ll tone it down, but I don’t know. Maybe you’re right. Maybe he’s planning something extravagant.”

Charlie hesitates. “Extravagant like a musical?” he asks, and for whatever reason the Waitress actually laughs, small and surprised and gone in an instant, but it’s an instant Charlie commits to memory.

“No, Charlie,” she says, “he’s not you,” and, well, it’s better than nothing. He acknowledges the remark with a rueful grin. The Waitress briefly smiles back, and her hands twist and flutter in her lap. “Thank you.”

Baffled, Charlie stares at her. “What for?”

“I don’t know,” the Waitress says. “I guess for hearing me out.”

“Oh,” Charlie says. “You’re welcome?” A beat. She isn’t taking it back. “Did it help?”

“You know, Charlie—in a weird way? It kinda did.” The Waitress slides off the park bench, then, and slips her phone out of her pocket.

Charlie frowns. “You’re leaving?”

The Waitress nods and flips open her phone. “I’m not waiting around,” she says.

“Oh. Yeah, that’s—that’s cool. You’ve got your little birthday things to do.” A pause. “I can walk you back if you want.”

“Charlie.”

Charlie holds his hands up. “Worth a try.”

“Not really,” the Waitress says as she hits Send on her text. But the tone of her voice isn’t unkind, and she meets his eyes when he looks up. “Take care of yourself, Charlie.”

Charlie nods as seriously as he can, and the Waitress heads back the way she came, and Charlie realizes that without a Waitress to talk to, there’s not much else to do here in the park. The pigeon has long since abandoned them and it’s getting late. He stands up and starts walking back to the bar, and he makes it four or five steps before he pauses, spins around, and cups his hands to his mouth. “Hey, Waitress!”

At the edge of the park, the Waitress stops and looks back.

“Happy birthday!” Charlie shouts.

“You said that!” the Waitress shouts back, and she’s too far off in the distance to be sure, but—and Charlie would bet his life on it—he swears her smile reaches her eyes.

—

Charlie’s cleaning the drains under the bar a few weeks later when Dee says, without anyone asking, “I saw the hero firefighter guy the other day.”

Dennis hums vaguely, and Mac’s the one to ask, “What hero firefighter?”

“You know, the guy who stood up those armed robbers? The ones at the PNC Bank?” Dee says. “That hero firefighter. Volunteer firefighter, technically.”

“Oh yeah,” Mac says. “Huh.”

“Yeah, he has therapy right before me?” Dee says. “I got there early, so.”

“That’s great, Dee.”

“Yeah,” Dee says, drawing it out. “He sounded real bad. I could hear the whole thing.”

“Uh-huh,” either Mac or Dennis say.

And Charlie’s fast losing interest himself, until Dee says, “I think the Waitress dumped him,” and his head snaps up so fast he slams it into a shelf on accident.

“ _What_?”

Dee’s peering over the counter. “Anything break?”

“What do you mean, the Waitress dumped him?”

“I don’t know, he was like crying about some chick breaking up with him and a bunch of other shit,” Dee says. “He was like bawling and shit, it sounded pretty gross. I think he’s an ugly-crier.”

“She broke up with him?” Dennis asks, in tones of flat disinterest.

“From what I could hear,” Dee says. “He was going on and on about how she was done giving him chances, and it was over between them, and she was _really sorry_ and she still wanted to be friends.” Dee rolls her wrist in a vague, shapeless motion. “All that crap. I don’t think it took.”

“Huh,” Mac says. “So why do we care?”

“Weren’t you guys, like, infatuated with him the day he came in here?” Dee says. “It was like a couple of weeks ago.”

“Dee, I hardly even recall him _coming_ here,” Mac says.

“Not like he’s done anything interesting since the bank robbery,” Dennis adds, flourishing his newspaper to Mac’s vigorous nod. “Kind of a one-hit wonder if you ask me.”

“Yeah, kind of,” Dee says, leaning elbows on the counter in thought. “Not much of a hero if you don’t commit to it, huh.”

“He’s still got the firefighter thing,” Mac says. “That’s kinda heroic.”

“Yeah, but a fire’s never gonna take people hostage and try to rob a bank,” Dee says. “Like, I get it, but I just feel like there’s a bit of a difference, you know?”

“If you say so,” Mac says, with an air of finality about the discussion. The conversation drifts on from there, but Charlie’s still got thoughts about it, rolling and kicking around in his head even after he finishes with the drains. He wanders into the back office with his hands jammed in his pockets, taking a seat as Frank looks up.

“What’s on your mind?” Frank says.

It streams out of him quietly, unbidden. “The Waitress broke up with her boyfriend,” he says.

Frank leans back in his chair, steeples his fingers under his chin. “What’d you do?”

“Me?” Frank raises his brow. “Nothing. She just… I dunno, I think it wasn’t working out. Dee heard him crying about it in therapy—she just dumped him, Frank, fair and square.”

The look Frank gives him aims squarely for sympathy. “Not too into hero types after all, is she,” he says.

One-shouldered shrug, and Charlie says, “I guess so.” The laugh that follows is short, disdainful. “All that hero training for nothing, huh.”

The corners of Frank’s eyes crinkle. “Being a hero,” he says, “it ain’t all about busting heads, or rescuing damsels in distress. You know that, right Charlie?”

“Yeah, I know,” Charlie says, “just.” He pauses.

Frank waits patiently.

“It would’ve been nice, you know?” Charlie finally says. “If that’s how it all worked out.”

Frank hums, nods. “Least the Waitress ain’t gonna dump you over it,” he says, after a moment.

“That _is_ true,” Charlie says with a grin. Frank conjures two glasses and the good scotch from the back office safe, and he pours them both a drink; they clink glasses and toast Charlie’s future of not ever being dumped by the Waitress for being too much of a hero.

And that has to count for something.

—

—


End file.
